


The Dickens

by Emelye



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Charles Dickens - Freeform, Gen, Lit Crit masquerading as Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 10:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10569357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emelye/pseuds/Emelye
Summary: Severus knew what kind of story he was in the moment he readOliver Twist.





	

Severus knew what kind of story he was in the moment he read _Oliver Twist_.

It was obvious, wasn’t it? He was miserable, cold and dirty. Mum and Da shouting all the time, never a kind word, crying himself to sleep into his pillow because he hadn’t known a gentle touch in his whole life. 

Well this was just the set up, wasn’t it? Obviously, when he went to Hogwarts, it would be the start of a new, glorious life. Plenty to eat, a warm bed, hot and cold running water, all the books he could read, and friends to talk to. So many friends. It made sense him not having friends in Cokeworth. They were all muggles like his da. His mum was the only one who could stand him halfways. Taught him to play gobstones, didn’t she? Anyway, things would be better with other wizards about. He wouldn’t feel strange there. Wouldn’t need to be kept inside in case his magic showed. 

When Severus met Lily he knew he was in a different story altogether. The Estella to his Pip, he thought. It wasn’t until she died that he knew she’d been his Em’ly all along, spirited away to farther shores, never to be seen again.

Sometimes, late at night, when the pain became too much, he liked to imagine she was only in Australia.

But David had his Agnes. And Severus had no one. He’d had his Havisham, his Murdstone, his Uriah Heep. He’d met his Steerforth. 

He received the gilt copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ for his 35th birthday. It was a welcome distraction from the burning in his arm that winter, and his great expectations were long since put to rest.

All the unearned misery in the world could not guarantee a happy ending, it seemed. Nor any repentance or redemption

Life isn’t a story, after all.

He tried to tell himself that as he looked into Potter’s eyes for the last time. But he’d always found his best comfort in stories, and he knew his role now. He fancied he could feel the blade of the guillotine in his neck as his life's blood departed the twin wounds in his throat.

 

 

_I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see...a child upon her bosom, who bears my name...I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence….I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him, fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know...to this place—then fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement—and I hear him tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice._

_It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known._

Charles Dickens, _A Tale of Two Cities_


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